Drogo went to the prisoner camp first.
Thirteen prisoners were tied to a long rope, squatting on the ground like a string of sheep tied together.
They were still wearing the leather vests from the battle; a few hung their heads, staring at the ground, not daring to look up.
A few held their heads high, their eyes sharp as knives, wishing they could flay Drogo alive—defiant, yet not daring to move.
Drogo came to a halt in front of them.
He walked slowly in a circle, his boots crunching softly on the grass.
“You are too weak.
With such little skill, you dared to attack my Khalasar?” Those with their heads down lowered them even further.
One of the defiant prisoners couldn’t help himself and snapped back, “Ogo Khao will seek his revenge on you.” Drogo looked at him and gave a mocking smile.
“That Khal of yours flees faster than a frightened sheep.” “I chased him for half the day and couldn’t even touch his horse’s tail.
He runs so fast; I’ve never seen a Khal run so quickly on the plains.” “Hahahaha!” The Dothraki soldiers behind Drogo burst into laughter.
The prisoner’s cheeks puffed with rage as he tried to take a step forward, but he couldn’t move.
The rope jerked him back, tugging at the wounds of the injured prisoners as well, making one of them scream in pain.
Someone among the prisoners whispered: “It’s true…
I saw Ogo abandon three Bloodriders and run away himself.” The defiant prisoner heard it and turned to glare at the speaker, but his gaze was no longer as firm as before.
Drogo walked up to him and stopped.
He leaned down, bringing his face close to look at him.
“What is your name?” The man met Drogo’s eyes but remained silent.
Drogo straightened up and didn’t ask again.
He tilted his chin toward Koso.
“This is one.
Pick three more.” Koso casually pointed out three men.
The soldiers untied them from the rope and shoved them to the side.
The four chosen ones had all sorts of expressions: trembling lips, constant blinking, or eyes fixed intensely on Drogo.
The remaining nine were tied back up and squatted back on the ground.
Drogo didn’t look at them again.
“Bring them over,” he said.
The four men were escorted to the pile of firewood.
The woodpile was three men high and about half the size of a basketball court.
Drogo walked around the woodpile.
“Tie the four of them inside.” The soldiers pushed the four men into the center of the woodpile, forced them to kneel, and bound their hands and feet to upright stakes.
The stakes weren’t tall, just right for a kneeling person.
Someone began to tremble.
The prisoner who had been staring at Drogo didn’t blink, as if trying to carve that face into his mind.
After finishing this, Drogo took his Bloodriders and went to Daenerys’s side.
Although Daenerys already knew her husband had returned safely, she still smiled with relief the moment she saw him.
She stepped forward to meet him.
Drogo dismounted, wrapped his arm around her waist, and kissed her forehead.
“Give me dragon egg.” He spoke directly, without needing Lali to translate.
Daenerys looked up at him, a look of confusion crossing her face.
“What do you want the dragon eggs for?” Drogo seemed to understand.
He didn’t explain, but simply repeated: “Give them to me.” Daenerys had no choice but to turn and order her servants to bring out the chest containing the dragon eggs.
The chest was opened, and the three dragon eggs lay quietly inside.
Drogo glanced down, closed the lid, tucked the chest under his left arm, and vaulted onto his horse.
The horse stepped twice in place as he pulled the reins and said in the dothraki language: “I will attempt to hatch the dragon eggs tonight.
You may follow.” With that, he rode away.
Lali translated the words for Daenerys.
Daenerys’s eyes lit up instantly.
She lifted her skirts and ran toward her silver-grey filly, mounting it to give chase.
Drogo returned to the woodpile.
He set the chest down, opened it, took out the three dragon eggs one by one, and handed them to the men beside him.
“Put them on top.” He pointed to the summit of the woodpile.
His men took the eggs, climbed up the woodpile, and carefully placed the three eggs side-by-side at the very top.
Drogo held a torch and turned to face the camp.
The firelight flickered across his face.
A dense crowd had gathered around—warriors, women, and children all pressing forward.
The nine prisoners were tied together with a rope, kneeling in a row before Drogo.
He shouted with all his might.
“There is no longer a place for Ogo on the Dothraki Sea.” The people around him fell silent.
“I will chase him until he can run no more; I will find him where he cannot hide.
On the day he dies, I will slit his throat and rip out his tongue.” He pointed the torch forward.
The nine prisoners recoiled.
“Go back and tell everyone.
This is what happens to anyone who dares touch Drogo’s Khalasar.” Before his voice had even faded, the torch left his hand and flew into the woodpile.
With a roar, the fire surged upward.
The four prisoners tied to the stakes jerked back violently as tongues of fire licked at their legs.
Some screamed, others twisted desperately as the ropes cut into their flesh, and the stench of charred skin began to spread.
The prisoner who had been staring at Drogo gritted his teeth and didn’t cry out, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
Among the nine prisoners, some buried their heads in the dirt, others trembled uncontrollably, and one young man collapsed on the ground, wailing until his voice went hoarse.
The people around them began to cheer.
First one or two, then dozens, until finally everyone was shouting with raised fists.
Their cries drowned out the screams of the prisoners, the crackling of the fire, and the wind across the plains.
Drogo stood before the fire, motionless.
The fire burned brighter and fiercer.
Daenerys hadn’t expected to see this when she arrived.
The stench of burning flesh mixed with smoke drifted over.
Her stomach churned; she covered her mouth with her hand and turned to retreat.
“Where are you going, my sweet sister?” Viserys had appeared at her side at some point, grabbing Daenerys with one hand, a smile on his face.
Daenerys’s lips were pale.
“I…
I don’t want to see this.” “Don’t want to see?” Viserys chuckled, not letting go of her hand.
“This is the might of the Dothraki; you must learn to watch.
Didn’t you marry him?” “But…” “I’d only heard before that he had never been defeated,” Viserys said, his eyes shining as he looked toward the fire.
“Today I saw it with my own eyes.
He slaughtered Ogo’s Khalasar until they pissed themselves.
That Ogo didn’t even dare look back.” He gripped Daenerys’s hand tightly.
“Such power is more than enough to take on Robert Baratheon.
More than enough to crush those traitors, those ungrateful wretches.” “My sweet sister,” he released her hand, “you must serve him well.
Make him march his army soon.
I can wait no longer.” “The people of the Seven Kingdoms are waiting for their true king to return.” Daenerys looked at him and said nothing.
The fire gradually died down.
The crowd had dispersed, but Drogo remained seated there, facing the embers.
Daenerys walked over and sat down beside him.
Neither of them spoke.
Tiny flames still licked at the last of the logs, crackling a few times before weakening again.
Drogo stared at the flickering light, his eyes unblinking.
How he hoped that once the fire died out, he would see three dragon hatchlings.
Fire and blood sacrifice—he didn’t know if it would work, but as long as there was hope, he had to try.